[For Cadi's Writing Gooder prompt]
We refresh the screen, get a message, refresh again. We go to the shower, refresh some more. Dry the hair and apply the antiperspirant. Sisters and mothers zip the backs of our dresses. We hear his voice, smell his cologne. He brushes our cheeks with his scruff.
Sit on red plush, order a salad. Not smart to eat large on the first date. He takes us home, gives us sweets: chocolates and wines. He’s had a lot of practice, this one. We eat it up—devour—he smiles and we melt into the shag carpet.
We’re out for the count, down for good. He’s a collector of boxes, a filler not a taker. He doesn’t eat chocolates, he puts them back in. It’s an assortment of sorts, and we each have a different center.
Boxes are smaller than you think, never enough space. We don’t know how it’s come to this, but we remember the sweet things with their sweet intentions. But worry not . We have suspected something like this might happen someday. We all end up here in the end. But if anyone asks, tell them we’re fine.